Sunday Chicken

I once worked with a girl who bought a rotisserie chicken every Sunday. She then explained in detail, how she would break down the bird into five equal portions and have herself a chicken lunch every day. This was not news to me, as her desk was next to mine and we often ate at our computers. We hovered with our plastic dishes over keyboards while trying to read emails, the smell of microwaved chicken wafting through the office. I was witness to her rushed chicken lunches regularly. Nonetheless, she was adamant that I learn her routine and tricks of the trade. She cornered me by the water cooler and spilled all her chicken secrets. She purchased the said poultry from a local supermarket, where it lay under a heat lamp for hours, shriveled and pale. She insisted that the plan was foolproof for us office girls – convenient, fast, brimming with possibilities. Once the chicken came home, sometimes she ate a piece warm, she mused. Other times she shredded it over romaine lettuce with a squeeze of lemon juice and a touch of olive oil. Extra virgin, of course. When she felt a bit wild, perhaps after closing a big sale or a night of binging Netflix, she would indulge in some mayonnaise, she whispered to me. She would then make chicken salad sandwiches! There was no end to what a girl can do with one rotisserie chicken. 

This was Soho, New York City, home to tiny lunches and calorie watchers. She was a bird of a girl herself, all collarbones and knobby knees in flowy skirts. I did not hold her shriveled pale chicken lunches against her. As she continued her list, I nodded along as if I wholeheartedly agreed to the idea of eating one bird for five days. But secretly, I mused on my own..

Sunday mornings, the sun just glimpsing over Lake Neuchatel. A semester abroad in Switzerland. I would squint into the light, lifting my head from the heavenly white bedding. Before rising, before thinking, I would stare out those huge balcony doors overlooking the lake. The mountains and clouds would blend into pink hues over the sparkling water. A distant call of a fisherman would get caught in between the white curtains. A flock of birds would zoom by. The Swiss air was crisp, and the breeze would carry the sounds of a town just waking. Inconceivably cozy under the fluffy comforters, I would turn to my roommate and wait for her to stir in her bed. Our Sunday ritual would soon begin. 

Eventually, we would rise holding our heavy heads, wrap ourselves in oversized sweaters and oversized sunglasses, and prepare to enter the village. Once outside, we would work quickly, staying one step ahead of our hangover. First, our noses would faithfully follow the scent of the nearby bakery. Crispy hot baguettes enticed us from the shop window, and we never left without one. The round shop keeper waved at us from afar, having learned our Sunday routine within weeks. Then into the cheese shop we went for a fat slice of brie, pointing and yelling out ‘Bon Jours!', one phrase from our limited French vocabulary. I carried a tote to gather our goodies, while my roommate then picked out some ripe tomatoes from a cart parked on the sidewalk. The red fruit glistened in the morning sun, the vines releasing an earthy aroma.  

We would wait until everything was secured in the tote before ending with the pièce de résistance. A small window front on the corner was home to a young man with incredibly long lashes. His French was almost as bad as ours, but his smile was welcoming and his window was always busy. We learned he arrived to work long before sunrise, meticulously tending to his craft. And oh, what a craft it was. We smelled his shop before we could even glimpse inside. There they were, spinning loyally behind their master. Their skin crisp, their juices crackling. Perfectly seasoned and browned to perfection. Round and round the rotisserie chickens went, as two hungover American students stood in the window with their mouths slightly agape. For a moment, forgetting all. Mr. Long Lashes expertly slid two of the birds onto white paper, wrapped them gingerly and tied them with twine. He smiled down at us as he handed over the packages.  

Blinking, tote fully stocked, we rushed back to our lake view dorm room. Stripping down to underwear and large t-shirts, we made a nest on the bed and dug in. The cheese was soft, its waxy skin like velvet. It oozed under our fingers, the flavors tangy on our tongues. We split the baguette, crumbs flying, and drizzled it with olive oil. Extra virgin, of course. I tore the tomatoes from their vine and cut us thick slices. The red juice ran down to our elbows, as we laughed and recalled colorful stories from the night before. Then the best part - the individual hot rotisserie chicken. We ripped open the white wrapping and let the warm steam envelop us. We devoured the chicken with our hands, the meat falling off the bones easily. The crispy skin slowly filled us with life, headaches gone. We lounged there with the lake and the chickens into the afternoon. Every Sunday. Until there was nothing left but bones and smiles. 

“And sometimes when it’s a cold rainy day, I throw the chicken meat right into a soup!”– my coworker carried on, transporting me back. “If you want, I can write this down for you”. The girl was not kidding. Her supermarket chicken truly had five lives. I blinked and stared at her. There are two types of people in this world, I thought at that moment. Those that simply eat to live… and those that live to eat – savoring every bit. I turned to my coworker, put my hands gently on her bony shoulders, and gave her a piece of my own advice: “Life is short, Susan. Next Sunday, eat the whole damn chicken”.